


Point Me

by charlolwut



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of violence, Angst, Auror!Lestrade, Crossover, Deatheater!Moriarty, Drabbles, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magical Consulting Detective!Sherlock, a bit of casefic, some blood, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlolwut/pseuds/charlolwut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The First Wizarding War has ended. But that doesn't mean that danger still isn't about.</p><p>[WIP]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

There's a reason Mrs Hudson can't seem to acquire any tenants for 221C. It is said that the place is haunted; that the evil spirits and vengeful ghosts that wracked the Shrieking Shack for several years live there now. People talk, and as talk gets passed around, new fancies seem to wriggle their way into fable, and now somehow Sherlock Holmes is part of the tale. They say that the moaning and screaming and howling started only a few weeks after the man moved in, and that it's hardly surprising if one considers his gruesome profession and hateful disposition; he must be a magnet for evil spirits.

Of course, some people - some curious, cautious people - spot the anomaly on the timing of the spirits' comings, and attempt to input their thoughts into the story. Nobody believes those fools of course. John Watson is not an malevolent man, so there's just no way that he could have a part in the haunts. John Watson is simply a good man stuck in an unfortunate position - the friend to Sherlock Holmes.

If one should discuss the fear of 221C with Mrs Hudson however, one must be prepared for the bewildering, but no doubt inevitable, giggle from the old woman. She'll giggle and sigh, "Oh, my boys. Not to worry, dear, they've got it under control."

And she'll be secretly glad that the tenant is uninterested, because actually the basement is in very good, and quite frequent, use. She knows the truth. Her boys - especially John, bless his heart - will continue to have to borrow 221C from her monthly for a long, long time, and she won't mind a jot, because she loves them as if they were her own sons. She's never in any danger and she always likes being useful in the mornings, knowing that she loves and is loved in return.

*

The dawning light filters through the small gap of the basement window where it just reaches the pavement outside. It's not big enough for anything other than an anorexic cat to slink through, but John likes to put up wards anyway. Just in case.

The door is always understandably warded, but it doesn't make it any less infuriating when Sherlock is fiddling with the complicated spell they set and listening to John's moans at the same time. Every month, every bloody month, his stomach twists as he works open that ward. And every month he falls in through the door, his hand still grabbing ahold of the handle even as he flings the door out as wide as it can go, until it smacks the wall behind with a resounding slam. It's at this point he releases his death grip and strides quickly over to his friend, who by this point is usually quiet and still, breathing slowly but audibly.

Sherlock plays his part well, and John doesn't disappoint in reciprocating. By the time Sherlock reaches him, John is a red-stained alabaster statue, apart from the tremors that run through his body.

"Wand, gauze, potion..." Sherlock mutters methodically, as he places the vial on the floor and tucks the gauze under his arm. He conjures a blanket and wraps it around the now shivering figure on the floor. He's only just realised himself how cold this basement is. He'll have to badger Mrs Hudson to cast her warmth charms down here the night before, or perhaps...

"Sherlock...?"

Sherlock's attention directs back to John, who is now seemingly awake. Or partly coherent at the very least.

Sherlock smiles. "I've got you, John."

*

John is sat on his armchair, his legs crossed and his attention seemingly on the newspaper in his lap. His eyes are smudged with dark rings, Sherlock notes, and his pallor pale. The jumper he's wearing is a high neck with long sleeves. His left hand trembles slightly. Obvious signs of a morning after.

Sherlock's eyes trace the hidden gash he knows is running down John's neck from the way he winces slightly as he shuffles the newspaper. He frowns. Looks back at his notes, scattered on the kitchen table amongst the tubes and vials and bunson burners and cauldrons. He frowns again; hums agitatedly; drums his fingers; re-reads over his notes a final time, and then grabs them, scrunches them up into the tightest ball possible and chucks it at the wall opposite. It knocks against the tap before falling dejectedly into the sink. Good. As it should.

"Not going well, I take it?" says John, peering past the top of The Daily Prophet to survey Sherlock. His eyes look pitying. They shouldn't. Sherlock can do this. He knows he can. He's solved countless cases, some hard even for him, so why can't he do this? Why, why, WHY?

Sherlock snarls and throws the closest object next to him in an arc across the room. A shattered beaker joins the paper wad in the sink.

"Sherlock, you know you can't solve everything," John says, his eyes still pitying, "This might just be one of those things that you just can't. I know you're a genius and all, but wizards have been trying to create a potion like this for years, and-"

"I would have thought you'd have a little bit of faith in me, John, as idiotic as that may sound."

That sounds biting. He didn't mean it to. But John just gets him so angry sometimes. He breathes through his nose and glares at the now empty space in front of him. He grabs another block of post it notes, adjusts his microscope and settles himself down again.

There is a moment of silence, during which Sherlock can feel John looking at him, can imagine his face. He feels like he should say something.

"John, I-" he breaks off. He clears his throat. "John, I am trying to help you. If I can't find a cure, at least believe in me enough to create something that will decrease your discomfort."

Now he looks up. John is smiling. Exhaustion still shows plainly on his face, but he is smiling.

"I do, Sherlock. I always believe in you. "

*

"Where are other body parts? They can't have disappeared! The offending wand never showed any Evanesco or something similar in recent use. If the spell blasted him apart, then why is this finger the only bone of him that remains?!"

Lestrade fidgets awkwardly. "The case is closed, Sherlock. There's no need to look any further into it. Black admitted to murder."

"He admitted to murder. He didn't admit to Pettigrew's!" shoots back Sherlock, fuming. It's just like the Carl Powers case. Why couldn't anyone understand? Why didn't anyone listen?!

Auror Moody steps in. His staff clacks against the marble tiles of the Ministry floor. "Look here lad, Black is locked up and he is staying there. The evidence against him is too strong. So what I suggest you do is clear off the premises before you make a embarrassment of yourself."

Sherlock takes a step forward, seething. "Are you all blind or just idiotic? Can't you SEE what's going on here?!"

"Sherlock," murmurs John, as he flings out an arm to stop his friend. Sherlock walks straight into him, not even acknowledging his presence. "Sherlock, stop. Shouting at them isn't going to get you anywhere."

Moody turns on John. "I shouldn't even have to explain why you shouldn't be here, lad."

John flinches and slinks back, his arm dropping back down. His expression is stony.

Sherlock turns his rage on Moody. "He can be here if he bloody well wants!" He grabs John's wrist and starts tugging them towards the exit, shooting scathing looks over his shoulder. He notes that Lestrade looks uncomfortable. He continues his verbal assault anyway. "If you need to lock up an innocent man just to make the ministry look big, then be my guest! I expected so much better of the great Mad-Eye Moody. And you, Lestrade. Especially you."

With that, he pushes John out of the door, before walking through it himself and slamming it shut.

*

The words 'Severus Snape' are printed in block letters across the front of the yellowing envelope. Sherlock can read the story without looking at the letter inside; he knows what quill the author used (Phoenix feather, held carefully which insinuates that it's a prized possession, one given willingly though and not that rare for the writer to acquire as he - obviously male, look at the font! - as he wouldn't be using a prized possession willy-nilly); he knows the parchment (imported from India, but bought in Diagon Alley); and most importantly, he knows who Severus Snape is and why Sherlock of all people was entrusted to deliver this letter to him. Dumbledore (obviously, although the letter wasn't given to Sherlock outright by him) knew that Sherlock had questions of his own to ask Snape the Potionsmaster. Ones that had increasingly been needed to be asked. That old man always did seem to have an eye on him, thought Sherlock wryly.

Sherlock doesn't particularly like the greasy professor. He knows what people have said about him is true; Snape had obviously been a Death Eater. He also has a personality that could clash tongues with Sherlock's own. But he puts those thoughts aside as he strides up to the isolated cottage, past the plants that spring up at him from either side of the path.

'For John,' Sherlock thinks as he raps on the door. 'Always for John.'

*

"I gave you your letter. I got you your information. Now where's mine?" snarls Sherlock.

Snape's upper lip curls in a sneer. "My, my, you haven't been here more than ten minutes and you're already impatient. What happened to that famous Holmes indifference?"

When he sees that he isn't getting a rise out of Sherlock, he sighs and holds up a withering, purple plant. "Wolfsbane," he supplies. "Also known as aconite."

"You're recommending me poison?"

"As much as I'd like to tell you how to put down your dog, no. Not in this case," Snape replies, smirking at Sherlock's look of anger. "In very small, precise quantities, Wolfsbane has been known to calm a werewolf. Beasts that have been in the vicinity of the plants have been considerably tamer and more likely to settle down in that area, rather than wandering and searching for people to maim."

"Is that it?" Sherlock asks. "That's all the information you have to offer me. Merlin, even Anderson could have come up with more in the years of research you've been doing." He stops and smirks. "Or years of service, should I say."

Snape turns still as a statue. "If Dumbledore's word isn't good enough to assure you that I've cut that out of my past, then you are truly idiotic." He waves his hand. "Perhaps you'll have better luck on this potion than I or others have. You do have a test subject after all."

Sherlock makes a non committal noise and turns to leave.

"See that you shut the door on your way out," says Snape, watching with his black eyes.

Sherlock leaves it open.

*

He had wanted to make it an experiment at first. As soon as he had first set eyes on John Watson limping on his cane, a dozen, no, hundred scientific theories and ideas ran through his head. His very own werewolf. In his flat. In his favour. Oh, the things he could do! He could lock the man up and see if the transformation differentiates or continues when the man is restrained; he could collect saliva and finally discover what it is in a werewolf's venom that makes that bite so fatal and life-changing; he could fiddle with the lights and how and when the man sees that ominous full moon, and if it matters what time the moon rises or if the moonlight streams down into the room, because every single goddamn book has always been so vague on the matter as to when werewolves transform. He could form a new line of answers to the highly undeveloped research on werewolves and shape them in a way so that everyone could see what tragic and beautiful creatures they are, instead of the slobbering wolves that murder mothers and turn children mercilessly, especially under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reign of terror.

He supposes that this very thought was his undoing. His ability to appreciate the natural wonders of these marvellous creatures who against all odds defy nature itself and manifest from man into the powerful beast of Muggle folklore. It was this thought, this very one, that made him sit back and enjoy the show the first time John transformed. It was three weeks after he'd met the man. They had lived together for twenty three days, solved one major case and two little ones (The Case Of Mrs Hudson's Lost Purse and The Adventure Of A Shopping Trip Gone Wrong In Sainsburys didn't quite have the same shazam as A Study In Pink), and had gotten to that point in a friendship where they could sit in comfortable silence and sigh at each other without being offended. In fact, John was the very best friend that Sherlock had ever had.

So when the moon rose and the first scream tore from John's throat, Sherlock felt displeased. No, not displeased. Hatred. At himself. He, who had thought of experimenting, torturing even, his best friend who went through enough agony a month to spare a lifetime; he, who had totally disregarded John's requests for privacy ("No, Sherlock, believe me, I know you like stuff like this, but this is not something you should have to see" he remembered John saying, but he deleted it, and it'd just crept back without him noticing, bloody brain!) but nonetheless silently removed the noise wards and made the wall between them see-through so it was as if Sherlock was in the room with John, only without the danger. So that Sherlock could see and hear absolutely everything. But now he didn't want to, because the noises John made didn't stop, they continued, getting lower and rougher in tones, screams gradually turned into painful howls. Sherlock shut his eyes when John's back cracked, because that was just wrong wrong wrong, it was John now, not some nameless person that Sherlock could afford to be cold about. The crack resounded in his ears like a clap of thunder rolling across the sky.

And then it was over. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the creature in front of him. There was not a trace of John in its eyes; it was not a fairytale. John had gone.

The werewolf bared its fangs.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The First Wizarding War has ended. But that doesn't mean that danger still isn't about.

The birds chirp and chime particularly loudly at dawn on 31st October 1984. It is Halloween. It is the one year anniversary of the Potters' deaths and You-Know-Who's downfall. It is but one day the one year anniversary of Peter Pettigrew's death and Sirius Black's imprisonment. It is the two days of the year that Sherlock Holmes hates. Not because of the tragic deaths or the signal of the end of the Wizarding War, but because it is the one case he cannot even begin to try to unravel and solve. The Potters are dead and their son in the hands of muggles, Black is still rotting in Azkaban, Pettigrew's mother selfishly safeguards her son's blasted finger - the one piece of evidence that could make or break Sherlock's deductions, and the Ministry still jealously guards the bloody case files. Lestrade won't listen to him and Mad-Eye Moody won't even give him the time of day. The only person that listens and is inclined to believe him is, predictably, John.

But even John cannot understand Sherlock's extended sulk.

"You've tried, Sherlock," says John, beginning to grow agitated. Sherlock hasn't moved all day and of course it's John who has had to suffer the consequences of his sniping and the shopping, on top of his own list of things to do. "You've made yourself heard to everybody and planted doubts in people. That's enough for now."

"It's not enough. Black is still in Azkaban and Pettigrew wanders the streets of London," snaps Sherlock. He stares straight up at the ceiling, eyes narrowed and hands pressing tightly together underneath his chin.

John throws his hands up. "I know you want to do the right thing, for once, but we don't have the resources to prove it."

"Mycroft..."

"Knows there's something fishy about the whole thing, but can't support your theory for fear of jeopardising his position in the Ministry. We've talked about this," finishes John, frowning.

"Mycroft can shove his career up his fat, pompous arse," mutters Sherlock.

John snorts. "Hah. And then where would you be when you need to break into Azkaban to question criminals or into Saint Mungos to terrorise witnesses?"

Sherlock can't argue with that.

*

"This is going to scar, I reckon," says John. He traces the healing cut down his cheek and grimaces. "I can probably get it to fade if I get some dittany from Diagon. It'd be better if I had some with me to put on immediately. At least it's closed now."

Sherlock continues to say absolute nothing and brood darkly on the sofa. It was his fault that his friend got injured in the first place. He doesn't know what to say back to John, other than the highly unoriginal "sorry, it won't happen again". That's stupid anyway; as long as Sherlock take cases and John is stupidly brave (Sherlock still thinks he should have been a Gryffindor), then situations like this will always happen.

"Bloody typical. At least I didn't inflict it on myself, I guess," says John. He turns his head and looks into the mirror from the side.

Sherlock watches him from his peripheral vision and scowls at John's half arsed attempt at humour.

"Running into trouble seems to be an unfortunate speciality of ours," says John, lifting the corner of his lips into a smile. He continues to poke and prod at the cut.

Suddenly, Sherlock's infuriated. John is a Healer, he should know to leave wounds alone and not joke about an event that could have easily had him killed. It's a damn good job that they'd tackled and disarmed the criminal when they did; a second longer and more vicious spells (much more terrible than a simple cutting curse) would have been firing out of that mouth before they could act.

"I'm glad you find this amusing, John. Kindly continue to make jokes at your own expense, it saves me the breath of having to doing it for you," snaps Sherlock. More words rise on the tip of his tongue, teetering and poisonous. His mouth shuts to keep the sea of sentences at bay. He's done enough damage this evening. Normally he wouldn't care, but...it's John. And he hates John for having the audacity to come into his life and mess up his organised emotions, jumbling and mashing them together so that Sherlock feels breathless with love and hurt and hate.

John's sigh shakes him out of his reverie. A moment later, he feels John forcibly bend his legs to make room on the sofa and slump down next to him, leaning against his bent legs. He sees John close his eyes and arrange his head so that the cut isn't visible to his friend. Sherlock feels a small well of contentment rise up in his chest and he closes his eyes too.

Hours later, Mrs Hudson comes up, levitating a plate of homemade biscuits, and finds them asleep in the same position on the sofa. She smiles and tuts and leaves them be.

*

"I might have it, John," says Sherlock quietly, staring at the purple vial in front of him. The cauldron bubbles ominously.

Since every single bloody case he had solved since You-Know-Who's downfall had been the fault of a Death Eater's, Sherlock hadn't been taking many. It had gotten boring after a while, reprimanding people from the same evil organisation again and again. Their excuses and reasons for murdering had all been the same too: to prove the Dark Lord had not fallen and still had followers, and how it was 'only time before Mudbloods, muggles and blood traitors get what's coming to them'. Boring, repetitive and simple.

Nowadays, Sherlock focuses on perfecting his variant for a lycanthropy cure. After Severus Snape's pleasant input, Sherlock's research had soared through the roof. Now today, all of his hard work might've finally paid off. Just in the nick of time too, he thinks, looking out of the window. Evening is only just ending and already the full moon peeks out from a heavy cloud. It will only be one more hour.

He can see John visibly bearing the stress of it. He paces on the hard floor, his hands clenched so hard that his fingernails are breaking the skin; Sherlock can see the red punctures every time John shifts his fingers uncomfortably.

John looks up immediately, doubt clashing with the hope on his face.

"You do?" he says, startled. He starts to stride over to Sherlock, his footsteps loud. "When can I try it? Before this moon? Before tonight?"

"I'm not sure if it should be taken tonight," replies Sherlock unsteadily, "It still needs some more tests."

"Why? What tests?"

Sherlock looks at his friend. John looks desperate, his eyes wide.

"Sherlock, if you're only saying this because you're unsure of it, then that's a crap excuse," says John, "I want to take it. Now. I can test it for you."

His hand extends towards Sherlock, his palm offered. It shakes slightly.

"John, I must warn you, if this doesn't work then it won't kill you - I haven't added enough wolfsbane for that, but it will be extremely uncomfortable and possibly very painful," murmurs Sherlock. He doesn't say dangerous, because John always jumps at the chance of danger.

John snorts. "Painful. Yeah, okay. Don't worry, Sherlock, I'm very used to pain. Now would you, please...?"

It ends on a question, and starts again on one. As Sherlock delicately hovers the vial into John's outstretched hands, he wonders if he's made the right decision. If it will work.

*

It doesn't work.

John swallows the vial in one and pulls a disgusted face afterwards. He calms down almost immediately. He stops pacing and shaking, and instead goes to sit in his chair, staring into space. It's at this point that Sherlock knows it hasn't worked. If it was working, then John would be worse off than he was before, shaking and in pain and possibly even vomiting, because that's how his body would react to the aconite poisoning the wolf and repressing it. Instead, the infusion of wormwood in it is making John tired, slowing him down instead of his disease. It's all gone backwards.

Sherlock runs over to his friend and shakes him violently.

"John," he says, "We need to get that out of you. It's not working, it's not purging the wolf."

John doesn't respond.

"John!" growls Sherlock. He slaps John around the face, sighing in relief when John's eyes finally focus on him. " Listen to me, you need to eject the potion out of your body. You need to make yourself sick and get that poison out of you. It's gone wrong. The aconite was meant to get rid of the wolf's influence before you turned, and then the infusion of wormwood and the salamander blood was meant to make you rest and heal during the moon, prospectively. You would keep your mind, but you'd also be tired and sluggish, which would doubly keep the wolf at bay. But it hasn't worked."

John opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes out is a pained sigh. He closes his eyes and turns his head away.

"John, no, listen to me-!"

All of a sudden, just as Sherlock is about to to do Heimlich manoeuvre or stick his fingers down his throat (he won't risk using magic when John's body is so full of unstable potion), John stands up stiffly and then falls to the ground just as quickly. He grunts and starts to whine in pain, fingernails scrabbling against the wooden floorboards. Sherlock freezes, his brain going into overload, and it's not until John starts to curl up in on himself that Sherlock realises that either time must have flown by or the process is working quicker now that the wolf has turned angry. With his heart in his throat, he disregards the dangerous magic inside John and reaches down to grab his shoulder, before aptly apparating them to 221C.

"I'm sorry, John," he murmurs, his breath catching in his throat, "I'm so sorry."

He casts the protective spells around the basement and tries his best to remove John's clothes with shaking fingers. It's hard enough to do with his stupid, bloody nerves, let alone when John is stilled tightly curled up in a ball. He gets them off though, finally, and banishes them upstairs to their flat. Then he sits down beside John, his hand clamped tightly over his friends's naked shoulder, determined to stay with him until he absolutely has to go.

The moon rises not twenty minutes later, and John is in his own mind enough to shrug Sherlock away and violently gestures him to leave. Sherlock stands up stiffly and heads to the door, pausing outside of the room.

"I don't want to leave-"

"Go away, Sherlock! Go!" John shouts hoarsely. He's cut off by his own scream. His chest constricts and the cycle starts, just as the door closes.

*

It's times like now that make John appreciate life. For all that is terrible, there are moments when the world seems to slow down and it's beauty blooms.

The snow falls silently outside. Traffic has stopped and it is only himself and Sherlock in the house. Mrs Hudson has joined the mass of people stuck, unable to pass the deep snow and get back to their homes (fortunately for her, she is at her squib sister's, so there is no need to worry; John had offered to apparate her back to the flat, but she'd declined politely, saying how it was nice to have an extended getaway sometimes). It is freezing, but the heat-charmed blankets and the crackling fire stir up warmth in the flat.

Sherlock plays his Stradivarius with heart. He draws out long, mournful music that trembles in the air. His eyelids flutter and his body sways gently in time to the delicate notes. The muggle instrument seems to produce more magic than any wizard ever could.

John settles back into his chair, wincing only slightly as the bandages chafe against his torn up body. The wolf was angrier than ever last night; John had woken briefly to agonising pain and blood splotching his vision, fallen unconscious again and then had spent most of the day sleeping like the dead. He's resisted the idea of going to St Mungo's upon awakening, thinking of the prejudice werewolves encounter there and the security and comfort he'd feel recovering at home. Between the both of them (and Mrs Hudson when she returns), John could recover from this easily enough. He still trusts Sherlock with his life, even if Sherlock doesn't think he deserves that right anymore.

He closes his eyes and thinks that if this is Sherlock's way of apologising (though he doesn't really need to), then it's more than good enough. It's beautiful.

"Best apology ever," murmurs John, sinking into sleep again.

Sherlock smiles tentatively.


	3. III

A package sits outside the flat door. It is positively thrumming with magic. Dark magic. Even standing a meter away from it, Sherlock can feel the familiar coldness surrounding the parcel. He’s curious, so curious, as to what this package holds, but he knows what John would say about him opening random gifts, especially if it contains known dark magic, so he decides to analyse it for the time being.

He’s in such deep concentration that by the time that John stumbles down the stairs, exhausted and annoyed, Sherlock doesn't even notice his flatmate as he marches straight towards the screaming sneakoscope. 

“What the hell are you doing? It’s six o clock in the morning,” growls John, as he snatches the sneakoscope and shoves it down the back of one of the armchairs. He throws some pillows over it to muffle the sound even more. “Can’t your experiments wait until later? I'm tired of this bloody thing waking me up at god awful times!”

“Mm,” replies Sherlock absently. He presses his palms together and tucks the tip of his fingers under his chin.

“What’s that?”

Sherlock flings out an arm to stop John from walking any closer to the package.

“We have some strange mail,” he says, smiling.

*

“Surely you saw who left it there. The sneakoscope would've gone off as soon as someone untrustworthy came into the vicinity of 221B,” says John a while later, when they’re sitting together over breakfast.

Sherlock eyes the wall. The words that the package exploded out are still stained tar black on the flowery wallpaper. They haven’t shown any sign of vanishing so far.

“’Come and play, M.’ What does that even mean?” says John, when it is clear that Sherlock has no interest in replying to his first comment. He glances at the wall, and then at the black and white photograph sitting between their plates on the table. It shows an active Dark Mark hovering in the sky over a destroyed, hopefully abandoned, house in the middle of nowhere. Some poor sod had obviously got on the wrong side of the remaining Death Eaters. John’s heart clenches at the thought of it.

The white skull screams and the snake slithers out the unhinged jaw anew again. John shudders and looks away.

“It means that we must have been missed in the criminal world,” says Sherlock suddenly, his expression passive. “Someone is going to great lengths to get me to investigate Death Eater crimes again.”

“Are you going to investigate this one?”

“No,” replies Sherlock shortly, “Not interesting, not relevant and certainly not worth my time. The Aurors can get this.”

“Sherlock!”

“John, leave it.”

Sherlock makes to stand up, but John gets there first.

“Someone has just died, Sherlock. The Aurors might not catch this one-“

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

John slams his hands down on the table. “Sherlock, I'm serious. If you’re not going to investigate this, then we should at least report it. I'm sure Lestrade would appreciate your help on this though-“

“Assuming Lestrade would be the one investigating,” interjects Sherlock, “I wouldn't anyway; I'm too busy. I simply can’t spare the time or effort.”

“ You've always made time before,” says John.

Something cracks in Sherlock. He spins around to face John and hisses, “Yes, well, before I didn't have any friends to help with their bloody diseases.”

John is dumbstruck.

‘Not good,’ thinks Sherlock, panicking, ‘That was really, really not good.’

“John, I apologise, I didn't mean what you thought that meant. Let me explain…” stammers Sherlock, trailing off. His last words hang in the precipice as he watches John grab his coat and walk out of the door.

*

John walks into the living room, his coat hanging over his arm, grim faced. He looks as if he’s sucking a lemon. His next words are as acidic to Sherlock as his expression.

“Sherlock, I…” says John. He stops and tries again, grimacing. “Sherlock, I've said this before, and I’ll say it again: I understand if you want me to move out. It’s bloody dangerous living with a …well, someone like me. The fact that you've managed this long and tried to come up with a cure says something about your loyalty,” he smiles slightly, “Your tenacity and madness too, I supposed.”

For the first time in his life, Sherlock doesn't know what to say. His mouth opens and gapes like a fish for a moment, before he catches himself out and shuts it abruptly. He’s sure what he wants, but he’s not sure what John wants to hear.

“So, well,” says John. His hands are clasped behind his back, reverting back to his military stance, trying to get a hold of some stability in him. Obvious, thinks Sherlock, he’s such a simple man to read, his John. His best friend. But he couldn't read John if he were gone. He thinks about what would happen if John disappeared out of his life as quickly as he had come, and Sherlock’s stomach contracts just thinking about it.

“No.”

John looks baffled, and quite startled, almost as if he had expected Sherlock to cry out with relief and kick him out of the flat immediately.

“ I'm sorry?”

“Damn right you’re sorry,” says Sherlock icily, “Don’t be an idiot, John.”

Now John looks pissed.

“Sherlock, don’t you-“

“You know,” continues Sherlock, swivelling around on the chair to fully face John, “I loathe having to repeat myself, but I remain adamant about what I said before: I would've thought you would have a little bit of faith in me.”

“Sherlock…”

“So don’t ever believe for one second that I don’t want what’s best for you, that I don’t know what’s best for you; that I do have a bloody backbone, and that if I wanted you to leave, then I would've said it a long time ago. I don’t have friends, John. I've just got one. And I’ll be damned if I let him go away. You want me safe, you want me happy? Stay. I am already all of those things. I will not let my biographer leave so easily, nor will I stand to see him unhappy,” finishes Sherlock. He smiles slightly, his voice warmed now. “Stay, John. Please.”

John looks between tears and rage, between hugging Sherlock tightly and stupefying him in the chest. He settles for a rather watery smile.

"And besides: who would get the milk?"

Sherlock laughs good naturedly as John flicks his wand at the tap and sprays Sherlock with water. 

"You git."

*

Another full moon passes and the black words on the wall are starting to drip. Sherlock hadn't attempted any magic to remove them because he did not know the nature of the Dark Magic; he'd dabbled in it when he was younger and for some certain cases, but he'd never actually performed any, regardless of what some people thought, so he was unsure as to the consequences of casting the wrong spells on them. It would be doubly unwise as their anonymous sender, 'M', hadn't sent them any more post, almost as if he were waiting for something to happen. Sherlock didn't want to be the one to lose that game; if patience was what it took for the words to vanish, then he had enough stored up from keeping himself from hexing Lestrade's forensics wizard, Anderson, in the face. 

It was patently obvious that John was still miffed at him for not taking the case, but he didn't have a reason to complain any more since Sherlock had heeded his words and had at least phoned Lestrade to report the destruction of property and, as it turned out, the murder of 32 year old Sarah Goodwin and her young son, Edward. Lestrade hadn't found any incriminating evidence or anything out of the ordinary; it seemed like a usual Death Eater crime, except for the fact that both Sarah Goodwin and Edward Goodwin were half-bloods and had no reason or cause to aggravate the Death Eaters. Lestrade seemed convinced that it was a random act of violence, but Sherlock, although he didn't take the case and agreed with Lestrade that it was a random murder of two unfortunate people out in the open by themselves, privately thought that it was the starting point, the causation, the first battle in a war. A war that is not yet to appear, it seems. 'M' is surprisingly quiet after the initial package. It is Sherlock's turn, but he will not indulge. Yet. Not while he has other commitments.

*

The door opens and closes with a quiet clack and the soft light on the landing appears. Sherlock mentally shakes himself out of his meditation and cracks open an eye to look at John as he steps into the living room. He looks downtrodden. He glances at Sherlock and quirks his mouth into a pained smile. Sherlock has already deduced what's happened.

"Why?"

John takes his time to reply, hanging his coat up and going to his chair to slump deeply in it, before quietly saying, "I missed too much work, apparently."

"Hardly your fault."

"No, it was. I knew I didn't have that much sick leave. Poor Sarah has apparently had to take my shifts these past couple of months. I should have known to have gone in after a full moon night, I was just taking advantage of Sarah," replies John grimly. "I just got my hopes up, that's all. This is the longest time I've held a job without getting fired, I should have known not to...well."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow as John peters off into silence, looking into the empty fire, his expression blank. 

"I ought to start looking for a new job," says John, his voice empty of emotion.

"Those muggle jobs are boring; they don't suit you. Why not get a job in the wizarding community?" asks Sherlock.

John looks up and wrinkles his brow. "Because I don't want to be cast out. It will happen, Sherlock. I'll get even worse treatment; I'll work for a couple of months, then some clever sod will put it together that I take full moons night off and have a suspiciously scarred body and a liking for steaks, and then they'll tell the manager, and I'll be publicly outed as a werewolf as well as losing the job. It's happened before. Do you want to really know why I couldn't go back in the army? My leg and shoulder were fine, and I still had the skills and the courage to go back out into the field. You want to know why I couldn't? They didn't, the still don't, trust a werewolf to go out and kill people. That the wolf in me will come out." John snorted. "Bullshit. It's after those bastards said that that my leg started to act up."

"It's after those bigoted people rejected you that you met me," replies Sherlock.

John smiles and stands up, stretching. "Yeah, yeah that was okay. That was good. Tea?"

"Please," says Sherlock, sitting up expectantly. "Why not just stop working? I have the money to pay the rent for us both for the next couple of months."

"I don't want to be kept like a pet, Sherlock. I want to pay my share, I'm a grown man. I need a job too, otherwise I'll just mope around all day. And what will happen when your money runs out? What then?" replies John shortly, as he walks to the kitchen and flicks the kettle on. The cupboard clack as he takes out their mugs and puts in tea bags.

"I'll get money off Mycroft. I have a trust fund too, you know."

John snorts. "You'd hate having to ask your brother for money and you know it."

The kettle switches off and John starts to pour the boiling water into their mugs.

Sherlock scowls.

"It's fine, I'll start looking for another job tonight," continues John, stirring milk and sugar in the tea. He chucks the spoon into the sink and brings their mugs over. He sets one in front of Sherlock, who is looking pensive.

"Why not just work with me?"

John looks up from his cup of tea. "Hm?"

"I can start taking more cases again. My potion for you isn't progressing and my mind is getting slow; I need to solve puzzles, I need to get back into the game. Work with me. You're practically my assistant anyway," says Sherlock, leaning forward. "Work with me and we can split the payment."

John rubs his cheek, still rough from not having shaved. "I'll consider it."

Sherlock's eyes gleam. "Excellent. Well, here's our first case!"

He grabs his wand from the table and hovers a letter over from the mantle, directing it straight towards John's face. 

John grabs it before it papercuts his face, startled. "Wait, no, I never said I would-"

"Oh, don't be petty, John. Just read it, and tell me when you want to leave to investigate," replies Sherlock, lounging back in his chair, looking like a cat that got the cream.


	4. IV

“So I’m assuming that Helen Stoner is pretty rich,” says John, his eyes wide as his looks at the mansion rife with wildlife in front them. 

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. John slows down for a minute, whispers a reverent “Wow…” and then hastens to catch up with the detective’s long, certain strides again. 

“Yes, I suppose,” replies Sherlock, his voice even. His eyes are darting around inconspicuously. John can practically see the cogs in his brilliant brain working, the clues being snatched up and stored neatly in his mind like the world’s most wonderful pensieve. 

“Right, let me get this story straight. So Miss Julia Stoner dies mysteriously in a locked room, the only evidence of foul play are rope-like bruises around her body. The Aurors are suspicious, but unable to find anything, so her sister, Helen contacts you to see if you can solve her death. You don’t think Lestrade should come? He might be able to shed some light on the matter and provide official evidence,” says John. They arrive at the impressive, if not ominously dark and grotesque, gates. There is a thick piece of square metal that looks like a lock without a hole in the middle of the gates, joining them together and preventing access, along with the presumable charms and curses protecting the grounds. It seemed like a well-protected house that would have those sorts of things if the unplottable co-ordinates stated by Miss Stoner in the letter were anything to go by. 

“I don’t see why he should. It doesn’t seem like a particularly dangerous case and there’s no evidence that they have that I can’t obtain myself; I don’t think the murder of the young lady has even been investigated properly. Miss Stone said the Aurors have disregarded it as an accident, a spell gone wrong. Which is ridiculous, obviously,” replies Sherlock offhandedly. He looks up at the gate and says clearly, “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and Dr John Watson, here to see Miss Helen Stoner.”

A green light flashes and suddenly the square metal on the front of the gate transforms into a silver handle. Sherlock grasps the handle and pushes the gates open.

“Obviously?” says John, as they stride up the driveway. “Why are you so sure it’s a murder? Miss Stoner didn’t even seem convinced herself.”

“She wouldn’t write if she didn’t suspect foul play. I expect the resignation of her sister’s ‘accidental’ death was because someone was monitoring her. You don’t get that sort of nervous handwriting from someone this upper-class; it would be ingrained in them to write perfectly. Unless of course she has a nervous disposition, which doesn’t seem right considering the fact that she is hiring us and trying to work out the cause of her sister’s mysterious death. That takes courage to do, especially if, as I suspect, her stepfather is as strict as he seems.”

“Her stepfather?”

Sherlock smirks. “Yes. Over there. The gates alerted him, I presume. Now we know he was monitoring his stepdaughter’s letters, he wouldn’t have known who to expect otherwise. We have his profile already.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you know that’s her stepfather,” murmurs John as they walk closer towards the house. The man awaiting them looks grim, stern and a little on the plump side, with a cane clasped between his wrinkled hands. He stands as straight as a man on patrol.

“Good morning, Mr Stoner,” greets Sherlock jovially, an overly buoyant smile suddenly plastered on his face. He offers his hand out. The man doesn’t take it, but looks stonily at it for a second before staring at Sherlock, his eyes narrowed.

“It’s Professor Grimesby Roylott actually,” he replies, “And you are?”

Sherlock darts forward and grasps Roylott’s hand anyway. He shakes it rigorously, smiling. “Oh, yes, of course, my apologies Dr Roylott. I think you know us, don’t you? Otherwise your gate must need re-charming.”

A sour expression passes over Roylott’s face. He yanks his hand away. “Helen must have tampered with it. You must be the men she owled about her sister.”

“Yes, yes, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my assistant, Dr John Watson. We’ve come on request of your daughter. She wanted us to investigate her sister’s murder.”

“Her murder?!” splutters Roylott, “The Aurors said it was simply an unfortunate accident!”

Sherlock’s smile drops. “Apparently Helen thinks differently. May we speak to her in private?”

“I should kick you off the premises right now! Do you even have any credentials?!”

Sherlock makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat and moves past Roylott. John nods in greeting at him and follows Sherlock.

“I…you can’t just…!” fumes Roylott, trotting angrily after them.

If Sherlock gives any indication he’s heard Roylott, he certainly doesn’t show it, thinks John, making his strides longer to catch up to Sherlock’s quick steps. 

Sherlock knocks on the door confidently. They only have to withstand a minute of Roylott stamping and swearing behind them before the door is opened by a young lady with a kind face and long brown hair. 

“You must be Mr Holmes, come in,” she begins, smiling, before she spots her stepfather, red faced and fuming, behind them. “Oh!”

Roylott pushes past John and Sherlock. “I won’t have men without any credentials or any business being here coming into my house, Helen! Do you understand me? I won’t have it!”

“They’re here to help,” replies Helen, staring uncertainly at her stepfather, “They’re going to explain Julia’s death. I don’t think it was a murder, dad, she’d never give anyone any reason to hurt her, but I need to know how she died. I need some finality to it. We can’t just go on without knowing what killed her. It’s disrespectful to her memory and hard for us.”

Roylott glares at Sherlock and John for a moment, before closing his eyes, his brow furrowed like he’s doing some very quick thinking. After a few seconds, he opens them and shakes his head disparagingly. “Fine. Okay.”

Helen smiles and she gestures for the two of them to go through the doorway. Sherlock steps over the threshold of the house without incident, but as soon as John steps through there is an alarm that rings throughout the house. John freezes, panic clearly etched in his face; he suspects what set the alarm off, and frankly he’s had far too much of this, and he doesn’t want his condition to ruin their case. Sherlock grasps his arm consolingly.

“What is that alarm for?” shouts Sherlock over the incessant drone of the alarm. 

Helen and Roylott look at John suspiciously, but eventually Roylott takes his wand from his belt and waves a pattern in the air. The alarm stops.

“Being a proud Pureblood family, it’s necessary that we have certain…precautions when dealing with strangers in our house. For example, that dark detector,” says Roylott, still looking at John, who stands strong against his gaze. His shaking hands are the only things that give away his state of mind.

“I can assure you with the utmost confidence that Dr Watson hasn’t the heart nor confidence to be able to use any dark magic. I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” says Sherlock steadily. He gestures for John to walk with him, obviously irritated. John takes a single step before Roylott holds up an arm to stop it. 

“I’d like you hear it from your mouth that you mean us no harm, Dr Watson. That dark detector doesn’t lie; you have the skills and mindset to use dark magic, or, even worse, you are a dark creature,” murmurs Roylott warningly.

John holds his head high. “I give you my word, Professor Roylott.”

Roylott eyes him suspiciously. 

“There, see? Now if you don’t mind, Professor, I’d like to begin the investigation into your stepdaughter’s death,” snaps Sherlock, his irritation finally getting the better of him. He grasps John’s wrist and yanks him past Roylott’s drooping outstretched arm. 

*

The room in which Julia was murdered is a low ceilinged, dark, damp room. Aside from the single bed, wardrobe and bedside table, there isn’t much furniture that adorns the room. A strange bell cord hangs over the bed, with the rope coming from out of the ventilator. The walls are painted a dark green, and the plains floorboards are dusty to the point of neglect. To call the room dank and depressing would be an understatement.

“I’d never seen Julia’s room while she was alive, but I can see why she was unhappy about it,” says Helen quietly. 

John nods. “It can’t have been a nice place to sleep.”

“It’s awful. I have to sleep in here for the next couple of days.”

“What?” says John, looking in concern at Helen, “Why?”

“Dad says I have to sleep in here while my room is being redecorated. I told him he doesn’t have to; I like my room just the way it is, and I’ll be moving out soon once I turn twenty one and get my inheritance. But he wants to make me feel better, so he said he’ll treat me to a new room. I can’t stand staying in the room Julia died in. It’s awful,” says Helen, looking miserable. “It’s why I haven’t moved any of my stuff in, it would’ve felt too permanent.”

“You can’t stay in any other room? It has to be in this one?” asks John, frowning.

“Well, this is the only room with a bed, and dad says he’d really rather not move the bed from this room, as it would be disturbing Julia’s memory. I don’t quite get it, but if it’s for Julia, then, well…”

John looks at Helen’s expression and feels a squirm of pity for her. “Don’t worry, Helen. We’ll find out what happened to your sister. She’ll get justice.”

“You really think she was murdered then?” asks Helen, aghast. “I didn’t really think it, but…Mr Holmes? Have you found anything?”

Sherlock makes a noise of confirmation to show that he’s listening, but doesn’t deign to respond. His magnifying glass is out (which he insists on using due to the simplicity of the item; it can’t malfunction or lie, it does its job, and he doesn’t have to memorise new, pointless spells and take up more space in his ‘mind palace’), and he inspects the dusty floor carefully. After a minute of silence, Sherlock stands up and tucks his magnifying glass in his pocket. He nods at the bell rope hanging from the ventilator. “Does that work?”

Helen looks up at it and shakes her head. “No. Or if it does no-one’s ever heard it.”

“Where does that ventilator go?” asks Sherlock immediately, pointing at the metal grating. John can almost see his deductions lighting up in his head.

“Well, the other end of it goes in my stepfather’s room,” replies Helen, looking a bit blank at these random questions. 

Sherlock gives another sound of confirmation and jumps onto the bed to inspect the grating. He peers inside the ventilator and swipes his forefinger across the metal bars. A smirk spreads across his face and he turns and jumps back off the bed.

“John,” he says, extending his hand out and pointing his forefinger up so John can see it, “Look. No dust.”

John stares blankly at the finger for a second. His face then clears. He nods. “No dust. But there’s dust everywhere else. And the door was definitely locked and charmed to curse an intruder when she was killed; Helen said in her letter. Which means…”

“The killer entered through the grating,” finishes Sherlock. His hands fly up to rest palms together underneath his chin. “It would be a tight fit. Which rules out plump Professor Roylott…”

“You thought my dad was the killer?” squeaks Helen, stricken.

“A perfectly logical conclusion to draw, considering your inheritance,” replies Sherlock, “Now shush.”

“But-!”

“Shut up!”

John looks apologetically at Helen, who looks as if she’s going to burst into tears. As much as he would like to scold Sherlock, he knows that the detective is thinking hard, and it wouldn’t be wise to disrupt his thought process.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s face clears and his mouth turns up in a smile. He claps his hands and exclaims, “I think I have it, John!”

“What is it, Mr Holmes?” asks Helen nervously.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Stoner. I’ll be back with your answer by this evening,” says Sherlock, striding out of the room. He looks back and smirks. “Come on, John. We have things to discuss.”

John nods and claps Helen on the shoulder softly. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back, with answers to your sister’s death.”

Helen smiles bravely and manages a small, “Okay.”

*

“Did you deduce that Professor Roylott is rather fond of his plants? When I shook his hands earlier, they were rough with cuts and thorn pricks. In fact, I’d even go as far to say as he collects them. He had numerous novels on his shelf about plants; ‘Toots, Shoots ‘n’ Roots’, ‘Encyclopedia Of Toadstools, ‘One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi’, ‘Flesh-Eating Trees of the World’, etc,” says Sherlock quickly, his mouth hurrying to catch up with his brain.

“I didn’t actually, but go on,” replies John, listening keenly.

“He also had a fondness for rare and dangerous plants. I noted Mandrakes near the Flitterblooms, Leaping Toadstools and Abyssinian Shrivelfigs in the back garden, and even Fanged Geranium underneath the window of all places. I wouldn’t suspect him of bringing something as dangerous as Devil’s Snare in and raising it among the Flitterblooms, before making use of it.”

“Wait,” says John, turning his head quickly to look at his friend, “You think that he used Devil’s Snare to murder his stepdaughter?!”

Sherlock puffed out a breath of air. “Oh, don’t sound so scandalised, John,” he chides, “Murdering fathers happen more frequently than you’d like to think. It isn’t even that far of a stretch; as soon as I heard that Helen Stoner was to come into an inheritance, and fairly soon I should imagine if she’s to receive it when she turns twenty one, I connected it to the natural disposition of her stepfather before he was forced to be nice in order to keep lulling his stepdaughter into a false sense of security.”

“That is a bit of a stretch, Sherlock,” says John, frowning. 

“It’s not when you consider his fairly expensive habit, his obvious dislike of the girls who are, or were, to shortly come into a massive amount of money, and the loss of responsibility for them after their mother died. It’s written in the house. Julia’s room has had little care for it, and she was obviously moved there specifically for her murder, as evidence from the dust. There are no photographs of the girls, no memorabilia, yet there is of his deceased wife, which shows that he does have feelings, but he doesn’t care to use them for his stepdaughters, who have been a thorn in his side since his wife’s demise. He didn’t feel remorse for Julia Stoner’s death, and the rubbish about doing up Helen’s room to make her feel better is obviously a ploy to get her to stay in the same room as Julia so he can re-enact the well-planned murder that worked so well for him on Julia.”

“Which was?”

“He waited until Julia was asleep in her bed, and then released the Devil’s Snare he grown in the dark, dank ventilator shaft. He used his wand to open the latches containing the deadly plant and shone Lumos or another charm of the like at its back, which obviously forced it to go forwards into Julia’s room. Aggravated, it heads for the nearest victim. The fake bell cord acted as a bridge for the Devil’s Snare to land on the bed and kill Julia. The cord is aimed just right of where the girl’s head would have been, so the plant would have strangled her first, cutting off air and preventing her from screaming, which would have obviously alerted her sister or any maids in the house. It then proceeded to squeeze the life out of her, as Devil’s Snare is apt to do. Whilst this is happening, Professor Roylott closes the latch on his side of the ventilator, runs into Julia’s room, which obviously doesn’t curse him as he was allowed access into her room and was the one to cast the spell in the first place, and casts another Lumos to force the plant back into the ventilator. He seals the plant in from Julia’s side of the room too and the evidence has vanished, apart from the lack of dust on the metal grating. He can’t have sealed it too strongly then, because the dust would’ve come back by now; it’s been weeks since Julia’s death. So no, the plant reaches out its tendrils sometimes so stretch, so he’s kept it loose because he intends to murder again, which was also back up the fact that he is murdering his stepdaughters to get their inheritance, since naturally Helen is going to be inheriting her sister’s fortune too now. So all he has to do is wait until Helen receives her inheritance and then boom! he murders her too and gets all of the money. But now he knows that we’re onto him (because of course he knows, he must have researched me and found out I’m a highly competent detective unlike some Aurors) he’s going to try it tonight, because he can’t risk having his plan foiled. Even if he only gets half of their fortune in compensation, it’s better than nothing and going to Azkaban while he’s at it. Simple.”

John stares. “That’s fantastic, Sherlock.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that enough times, John, do continue,” replies Sherlock, smiling. “But really, do keep at it; I’ve started to rather enjoy your compliments.” 

“Oh, shut it you berk.”

They reach the gates and Sherlock lifts the Muffliato charm that he’d cast just after they’d left the mansion. He repeats their names again and the gates open willingly. They step out into the grounds and breathe the fresh air.

“We’ll go back tonight to catch the culprit, but I fancy a trip to the Apothecary’s,” says Sherlock, holding out his arm for John to take. 

“As long as I get to sit down with a nice cup of tea, I’m all for that,” replies John, linking his arm through Sherlock’s.

Sherlock huffs, but turns them on the spot to apparate to the nearest village.

*

After John’s had his tea and Sherlock’s practically bought the entire section of Classified Dangerous Ingredients and banished them home, probably much to Mrs Hudson’s chagrin, they apparate back to the Stoner/Roylott mansion and hover at the gates. 

“What now?” says John, “We can’t just walk in through the gates. If we’re planning to catch the Professor during the act, we can’t notify him that we’re here.”

Sherlock takes a leaf from his pocket. “Unlike some, I think ahead.”

“And a leaf is meant to help us how?” retorts John.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s a Portkey. Yes I know it’s illegal,” he adds exasperatedly when he sees John’s stern face, “But it’s for the greater good. Mycroft can fix it anyway.”

“Mycroft is not a solution to all your petty crimes.”

“Just hold the leaf; it goes in exactly 5 seconds.”

“Merlin, Sherlock!” cries John as he hurriedly holds the leaf and is almost immediately dragged away as the Portkey transports them to practically the front door.

“Christ,” murmurs John, picking himself up off of the ground, “You couldn’t have picked a better location?”

“The co-ordinates must be slightly off,” replies Sherlock distractedly. He sneaks up to the front door and mutters spells at it. The door creaks open and Sherlock enters cautiously, before beckoning John, putting a finger up to his lips to quiet him. John nods and steps over the threshold, holding his breath. When no alarm sounds, he releases it quietly and follows Sherlock stealthily up the stairs and into Helen’s room. Sherlock opens the door with a quiet snicker and immediately casts Silencio on Helen, who sits bolt upright in bed and gives a frightened gasp. 

“Sh, don’t let him know that we’re here. Act normal,” whispers John, “We’re going to save your life.”

Helen nods, frightened but determined. Sherlock quietly murmurs the counter spell and Helen, although pale as death, does as she’s told and settles down into the bed again. 

They don’t have to wait long before a dim light shines from behind the metal bars of the ventilator. Sherlock nudges John and gestures to his wand. Helen looks petrified.

“What’s happening? What’s going on?” she whispers desperately, “What are you doing with your wands?”

Sherlock silences her again and casts Muffliato in succession, ignoring John’s pointed look of “Not Good, Sherlock!”

“Here it comes,” whispers Sherlock, “Incinerate it.”

John holds his wand tightly, the spell on his lips. He gestures for Helen to come to then, which she does almost immediately, scrambling out of the bed to kneel frightened behind them. John reaches round to put a consoling hand on her shoulder, to reassure the shaking woman who currently looks like a little girl in her terror.

“John!” 

John whips around to see the Devil’s Snare groping for a body, for something to strangle with its long, deadly tentacles.

“Incendio!”

Bright jets of flame erupt from their wands at the much-bigger-than-they-anticipated plant. It shrivels and cowers, but doesn’t retreat. Apparently it doesn’t much fancy going back through the vent either. Roylott must still be casting his own spells at it from the other end.

John stands up and runs out of the room, ignoring Sherlock’s yells for him to come back. He holds his wands tightly by his side and breaks into the other room with a well-placed “Bombarda!”

Roylott stands in the middle of the room, red faced with exertion and anger. He seems torn between aiming his wand at the plant and the doctor aiming his wand determinedly at him. 

“Lower your wand, Roylott, and I won’t hurt you,” growls John. His grip tightens on his wand.

The Devil’s Snare is creeping back slowly, its tendrils sliding over the walls menacingly. Roylott hesitates, then suddenly fires off spells in quick succession.

“Reducto! Colloportus! Stupefy!”

The Devil’s Snare is blasted backwards and half locked in the ventilator, some of its vines still groping angrily. The red stunning spell is blasted at John with surprisingly accuracy. It manages to hit him in the leg as he tries to sidestep it.

“Expelliarmus!” shouts John, just as his leg collapses from underneath him. His spell is so strong and has so much resolve in it that Roylott is blasted backwards, his wand flying in the air. Roylott slams against the wall, his back arching from the rebound and is knocked unconscious just as Sherlock comes rushing into the room, followed by an anxious Helen. He catches Roylott’s wand with brilliant timing and rushes immediately to John’s side.

“John! Where are you hurt?” asks Sherlock frantically, as he pats John down. 

“I’m alright, it was just a stunner,” replies John, gently pushing Sherlock away, “Go make sure Roylott can’t get away.”

Sherlock nods grimly and stands menacingly over Roylott, who just seems to be coming back to consciousness. Roylott squeaks when he’s sees Sherlock’s thunderous face looming over him.

“It’s a damn good thing that you didn’t kill my friend, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you out of this room alive,” snarls Sherlock. He whips out his wand and casts Incarcerous on the cowering Professor.

“Helen,” Roylott stammers, struggling against his bonds, “Helen, please, tell these men to stop. I’m innocent!”

Looking absolutely stunned, Helen shakes her head and takes a few steps backwards. “I thought you cared for us. But you murdered her. You murdered Julie.”

“No, sweetie, no, these men are just playing with your mind! Trust me, I’m your father!”

Sherlock growls threateningly, his wand raised, but freezes when Johns grasps his shoulder to hold himself up. Sherlock arms drops and snakes round John’s waist to keep him upright on his weak leg.

“I think perhaps we should summon Auror Lestrade,” says John calmly, “Help me over to the fireplace. I can see some Floo powder on the mantelpiece.”

“You most certainly aren’t using my possessions after you incarcerate me and falsely accuse me of murdering my own stepdaughter!” shouts Roylott almost desperately. Helen rushes out of the room, her face covered, and Sherlock aims his wands and strikes Roylott with a rather over enthusiastic stunner. Roylott slumps to the ground again, his red face slack.

“A tad excessive, don’t you think?” says John, smiling a little despite himself. He throws some powder into the fireplace and asks for Gregory Lestrade of the Ministry Of Magic Auror Office.

“I’ll happily stun anyone that idiotic unconscious within an inch of their lives any day, thank you very much,” snaps Sherlock. As murderous as the detective sounds, John knows that the bite in his tone isn’t directed at John himself. 

The fire spins as Lestrade’s reluctant face comes into view.  
*

Later, when her two boys are safely back in Baker Street, Mrs Hudson brings up their mail and some tea and cakes for them, natters about the danger they both run into, and leaves them to sit in front of the fireplace in their respective armchairs. 

“You’re right, you know,” comments John lazily, as he rubs his leg, absent minded.

Sherlock doesn’t deign to respond properly, only flicks up his eyes in recognition of the comment.

“The money really is better,” clarifies John, smiling, “And – I swear I’m going to regret saying this – officially working with you isn’t as bad as I imagined.”

“Oh, so now you’re getting paid, it’s official?” replies Sherlock as he flicks through the mail.

John laughs softly. “Of course. Before it was just a hobby running after you. Actually it was more of a chore making sure you weren’t hurt in all of those ridiculously chases.”

Sherlock huffs. “You love it.”

“Yeah, I suppose I do,” replies John contently, “Idiotic though. I guess being paid for running after a lunatic is pretty good.”

Sherlock just frowns at the letters in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” says John, leaning forward to peer at the letters. His mouth tightens when he sees the familiar signature, dripping black. “Is that from…?” 

“Our anonymous fan? Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait again! University has been a bit hectic and I've been very lazy, but thanks to QuarterQuell's encouragement I managed to churn this one out tonight. I was quite reluctant to start it, but then I couldn't stop, so sorry if there are mistakes! Cases are quite hard to write I've found out. XD  
> Thank you for the feedback. Another chapter should be out shortly!


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait again!

"The Adventure of the Devil's Snare? Honestly John, I had no idea you were so lacking in imagination," scoffs Sherlock over a mouthful of toast.

"I don't know, it's just a working title for now. It has a ring to it," retorts John, "And don't talk when you're eating, you're spraying me with crumbs."

Sherlock makes an irritated noise and feels a childish streak in him threaten to purposefully spit crumbs at John. He manages to stifle the urge and instead makes do with throwing the finger up at John, reveling in his indignant "OI!", and wanders over to the sofa to flop on it.

"D'you want a Chinese tonight?" asks John, his hands pausing in his slow, careful writing. He'd been so pleased with Sherlock's gift to him: a black, leather bound book complete with muggle pens. John had given a broken, happy 'Oh' at the feel of the Biros he'd used as a boy. He'd looked so damn happy over the most material of goods, and Sherlock had felt pride swell in him at the look on his friend's face.

Sherlock tried to summon up those happy feelings in him again, but presently only felt the mind numbing boredom.

"Sherlock, do you want a Chinese tonight?" repeats John, looking up from his book with a guarded expression. Sherlock knows he knows about the black moods, and Sherlock can tell when John starts to worry about him. It grates on his nerves.

"We'll get another case soon, don't you worry. Something exciting will pop up," says John kindly, annoyingly.

Sherlock can only bloody hope.

*

A couple of weeks on, the moon is yellow and sickly-looking in the sky, its surface visibly stained with craters as dark as the background of which it is hung upon. John looks none the better, his face pale and dark rings bruising his eyes. Moonrise is in a couple of hours, and Sherlock had hoped that John had the common sense to sit down and nurse himself with a cup of tea before his ordeal, but his hard working and tenacity driven House had obviously made an impact on him, and he was refusing to stop working and sit down.

"John, sit down," says Sherlock rather patiently. He knows he's been quite impatient with his flatmate since the latest letter from their anonymous sender sent them into another vicious row when Sherlock once again ignored the picture of a boring murdered couple and tossed the letter into the fire. It had spat and sizzled in the flames and burnt much slower than a normal letter not infused with dark magic would have done. John had been fuming for days at Sherlock's anger, and so Sherlock thinks he's being rather polite, considering, when he tells John to sit.

John, however, just frowns into the pile of books he was looking through and tosses another one onto the reject pile. He notes it down, not looking up from his notepad.

"John," repeats Sherlock, this time with a definite edge to his voice, "Sit down before you fall down."

"You need my help on this," replies John quietly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Not urgently. The murderer won't kill for another two days, e've discussed this. We know her routine. We've got plenty of time-"

"Believe it or not, I actually want to find this killer before she even considers her next victim," snaps John. He clenches and unclenches his hands, and then flicks through the book he's currently holding, before frowning and placing it into the maybe pile. Although the murderer has taken books out relating to a victim (a genius killer; she want to, need to, show off, to have an audience), she's used different pseudonyms, but with an obvious code in them that Sherlock worked out the connection between immediately. The maybe pile of evidence of those pseudonyms and are needed for the case, to provide evidence for the case. Judging by her pattern, the next murder is scheduled to be in a couple of days. It's not enough time to sort through all of her fraud and false indenties, but there is enough evidence already, and Sherlock already has a plan set out to find her next victim and prevent her from murdering again, yet...

"John, I know why you insist on doing this. It's to distract yourself, to work yourself to exhaustion in the hopes that tonight will be slow and less painful, but you're just putting more stress on you body," says Sherlock impatiently.

John picks up another book, frustratingly calm, and Sherlock, his temper snapping, swipes it from John's grasp. He grits his teeth, runs his eyes over the cover and throws it hard into the reject pile. The both stare at the book for a moment, taking in the tatty pages and broken spine. Sherlock's stomach clenches painfully at the awful metaphor his mind has connected between the book and how John will be after tonight. He won't ever forget any of the debilitating injuries that he's watched John sustain over the course of their tenancy share ('friendship,' his mind supplies helpfully) and watching John work ot the bone cuts him to the core. The man has done enough, he's got plenty on his plate tonight, so why can't he just understand and stop?!

"I want to help. I don't..." murmurs John, and sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. "I need to, I don't know...know I'm doing something good, I suppose."

"You are consistently good," replies Sherlock, not quite understanding.

"Not tonight, I won't be," replies John darkly. He breathes out harshly and continues to look through the books, his left hand trembling ever so faintly. A sign of weakness, one that infuriates John to the core. Only Sherlock could have seen it, and only Sherlock knows John's hatred of himself. His body clenches again, although perhaps this time it might have been his heart that pained him, as much as he wishes it wasn't.

"You always do good, John," replies Sherlock bluntly, still bemused with John's concept, "You will lock yourself up tonight and suffer so as not to hurt others with your illness. I think that's as good as you can get."

John smiles faintly, but it's more for Sherlock than because of him. He continues to rifle through the books, and Sherlock reluctantly lets him. The moon is still low, after all, and the evidence pile stacked high.

*

The moon rises quicker than they'd estimated, and their hearts momentarily stop as moonlight hits John whilst Sherlock is still folding John's clothes in the corner of 221C.

"Sherlock!" shouts John, panicked. He stumbles to the corner of the room with stiff limbs, furthest away from Sherlock. Claws start to protrude from the ends of his fingers as he grabs his face, etching red into his forehead, and bends as close as he can to the floor, breathing harshly.

Sherlock freezes for a second, taking in the awful sight of his friend in agony.

"SHERLOCK!" cries John hoarsely, curling in on himself even more and emitting a pained groan that ends on a desperate sob. He takes his hands away from his bloody face briefly to look up at Sherlock, as if to memorise Sherlock's face before his humanity leaves him. His scheleras are an animalistic yellow and his pupils are blown black.

Sherlock flees.

*

It's only after Sherlock's locked and warded the door to the werewolf's cage that he realises he's still holding John's shirt in a death grip. He brings it to his face hesitantly and inhales the fabric's comforting smell.

The werewolf rages in its prison.

*

There is a knock on the door. After a moment of silence, Mrs Hudson opens the door, wringing her hands.

"Sherlock, dear, poor John's making a racket down there. I did a silencing charm but the door is still rattling, and I'm rather afraid to go nearer," says Mrs Hudson, her voice tinted with well meaning pity for her boys and a tinge of fear.

Sherlock doesn't move, except to move his violin bow back and forth slowly against the resin soaked cloth that he is holding in his other hand. He puts on a mask of thoughtfulness and calm. Underneath it, his body is rigid with tension, ready to snap like the bow he is so delicately preparing.

"Sherlock," presses Mrs Hudson gently, "I know John's never broken out before, but perhaps we ought to-"

"The door is sturdy and well warded. There's no need to panic."

Mrs Hudson presses her lips together worriedly, but doesn't protest. "Would you like a cup of tea, love?"

Sherlock doesn't bother to reply.

Mrs Hudson bustles predictably into their kitchen nonetheless and starts boiling the kettle and fetching the teacups and saucers, nattering about her mundane day. It's obvious she's nervous; she'd go downstairs and prepare the tea with her own teabags and cups normally because she always nags about how her boys fill the cupboards with bodyparts instead of normal food and that she shouldn't waste what little they have, but now she's pottering around in their flat because she's too frightened to go to back to her 221A and feels safer around Sherlock, whom she knows deals with John's lycanthropy on a regular basis. Sherlock hardly listens to her stories of Mrs Turner's married tenants, but he loves her like a mother and he finds her voice comforting, so he lets her stay and tries to comfort her in his own way.

"There you go, dear, drink up now," says Mrs Hudson, pressing a hot cup of tea up against Sherlock's wrist until he's forced to put his bow and resin on the table and take it from her hands. He sips it and tries to smile at his landlady.

"Thank you, this is excellent."

Mrs Hudson beams, and Sherlock finds himself thinking that John will be proud of him in the morning when Mrs Hudson tells John about their night while she's pressing a mug of tea against his hands instead.

*

Somehow, Sherlock managed to sleep for an hour or so. He blinks himself awake in the pale, dawning light that's leaking into the room. He glances at Mrs Hudson, looking ten years younger as she sleeps on the sofa, a soft blanket draped over her. She dozed off sometime around midnight, and Sherlock didn't have the heart or the energy to carry her back down into her flat, so he arranged the sofa and carried her to that instead. He considers waking her up, but decides against it when he realises that she's only had about five hours sleep. An elderly lady, even one as strong and healthy as Mrs Hudson, ought to rest longer than that. She'll wake up naturally in a couple of hours anyway, thinks Sherlock decisively. He stands and stretches, eyeing the empty teacups, and decides to dump them in the sink to be washed lest Mrs Hudson nags him later.

A beam of sunlight hits the side of his face and he squints against the light, looking at the sky, searching for a familiar silvery orb hanging low. He finds it: a faint, grey circle slowly disappearing behind the sunrise. The time is close enough, he figures, and he pads quietly downstairs.

221C's door seems to be missing a few splints of wood from its frame, he discovers. Sherlock studies it intensely and grips his wand in his hand. His wand seems to spark impatiently and Sherlock neatly recites the counter spell for the wards on the door. They don't work. In fact, the door doesn't even seem to have any wards on it at all. He ignores the panic rising in him and turns the knob slowly, worried for his friend inside the room.

Who isn't actually inside the room.

Sherlock's breath stutters in his chest. He's gone. John's gone.

The werewolf escaped.

He runs his hands through his hair and tugs at the dark curls, cursing Mrs Hudson's silencing charm and his own ineptitude and neglect of the situation. He normally stays awake, he should have stayed awake! He shouldn't have taken cases, he should still be working on John's potion! He could have cracked it by now, and then John wouldn't have had to suffer ever again and wouldn't be bloody missing right now.

"Merlin," he whispers, and ghosts his knuckle over his mouth, before holding it there with his teeth, breathing slowly, painfully.

There is a note on the floor, dripping black ink onto the floorboards.

_I got impatient, sorry. Don't fret too much! Your pet hasn't gone far. I don't even think he ate anyone! - M_

*

Sherlock is already planning the map of London in his head, the one that'll be similar to the one that the little, annoying gang of Gryffindor fourth years had when Sherlock was in his seventh year; the one that he should have created already; the one that he should be using right this instant in order to find John faster.

He'd sent his patronus ahead to scout out the alleyways, and his mind was running ten miles a minute, analysing a werewolf's territorial behaviour and ideal prey, as well as the darkest places within a two mile radius; places that could hide a huge, bloodthirsty beast without attracting attention, because if nobody had reported a bloody werewolf roaming the area within a couple of hours, then it's likely that it hasn't been spotted or 'M' was lying and the werewolf has in fact eaten the entire street.

"For fucks sake," hisses Sherlock, trying to wipe his mind of that particular idea, before it starts to brew and grow and make him panic. Because what the fuck could he do, or say, to protect John from the Ministry or John himself if that happened. The ministry wouldn't forgive John. John wouldn't forgive Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't even forgive himself if that happened.

Suddenly, there's a rustle of movement to his left. Sherlock swirls around, his greatcoat billowing, and shines his wand down the alley.

"John?" he whispers, suddenly feeling nervous. He shines the light around and aims it at the bins he's just seen rattling. A horrible, coiling fear rises up through his stomach and he grips his wand tighter. What if John hasn't transformed back yet? What if its new found freedom made the wolf grip a little tighter, hold onto its control for a while longer...

A cat slinks out and hisses at him. Sherlock flinches and tries to slow his pounding heart.

"Just a cat," he mutters, "It's just a fucking ca-"

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumps violently and turns around, taking a step back. He points his wand at the perpetrator with a ramrod straight arm, and...falters.

It's John. Bloodied, naked, and looking as if he's about to fall over, John.

"I...John?!"

Sherlock lowers his wand slightly and runs his eyes over his friend. John's leaning heavily against the wall, his chest heaving stuttering breaths and his eyes wide. He's favouring his right leg (his left is a bloody mess) and he's got an arm wrapped tightly around his ribs. He's injured and extremely weak, but he's alive. It's more than Sherlock could've hoped for.

"John, Merlin, John, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry," stammers Sherlock frantically. He runs towards his friend, his arms out, ready to support him. "I'm sorry, John, I should never have fallen asleep, I shouldn't remained vigilant, I should've..."

As soon as Sherlock reaches out, makes contact with his friend's ravaged shoulder, John vanishes. Not with a poof, not with a bang or a snap of disapparation. He vanishes with the air of one who never existed in the first place; an apparition.

Sherlock stands there, his arm frozen, his face locked in perpetual surprise and betrayal. Then he begins to shake. Anger roils him, bubbling in his bloodstream.

"JOHN!" he roars, his voice echoing off of the red brick walls. He's so angry, he almost misses the parchment note, dripping with black ink, conjured in midair in front of him, drifting downwards lazily. Almost. With a snarl likely to scare Manticores, Sherlock snatches it up and stares at it.

_Might have lied, sorry. It's just so fun to watch you dance. He still didn't eat anyone though! -M._

Sherlock snarls and scrunches the note up into a tiny ball, before throwing it to the ground and stamping on it. He finishes off with a flourish of his wand and a ferocious Incendio.

Not knowing what else to do, for once, when its bloody important that he should, he twists and apparatus home, hoping to get some answers. He freezes at the sight that greets him when he arrives at Baker Street.

John is slumped outside 221, looking mostly dead.

*

"I'm sorry, John, I had to," Sherlock repeats frantically, trying his very best to be calm and collected. He's holding his best friend in his arms. He's leaving a soft trail of bloody footprints from when he stepped through the puddle of blood that had collected beneath John on the doorstep. He doesn't think he's ever been this frightened before.

"That's...all your sorry for?" replies John hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. There's a gouge sliced out of his forearm that Sherlock cannot take his eyes off of.

"I had to check if it was really you, I-"

"Anything else? Anything else, maybe? For fucks sake, look at me, Sherlock!"

Sherlock lifts his eyes to John's face guiltily. "John, I-"

"You let me out. You let me out, Sherlock, when you knew," growls John angrily, faintly, "When you...when you knew I..."

His head drops, lolling backwards, and his body sags as he falls unconscious again. Sherlock holds John tighter and continues to carry his dead weight up the stairs to 221B.


	6. Vl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm really sorry for the wait. The plot bunnies turned to dust bunnies.

The flat is silent. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to talk, but no words come out. He swallows painfully.

The flat remains silent.

*

Mrs Hudson had cried when she woke to see her boys enter the room. She had bustled and blubbered, casting repeated weak healing spells on the still-unconscious John, until Sherlock had finally had enough and waved her away like a housemaid, his face contorting in anger. 

She had left, shaking, not upset at the way Sherlock had treated her, but at his expression: the cold, stoic mask hiding hurt and anger and guilt.

*

John wakes in bursts, and falls away again just as quickly.

*

"I hate you so much right now."

"I know, John. Go back to sleep."

*

Legilimency. 'M' is a Legilimens. An extremely talented one. Its the only possible explanation; that wasn't a polyjuice-John, nor was it an Imperio spell or any sort of illusionment charm, because John disappeared without a sound. A hallucination on Sherlock's part is completely out of the picture, because he was drug and spell free. Any physical being would've had to apparate away (Sherlock would have held on regardless) to vanish, or disillusion themselves, which Sherlock would feel. It was definitely an apparition. The only logical conclusion to draw is that someone conjured an illusion, and with no-one around to cast a spell, it signified a powerful Legilimens, one strong enough that they could conjure images in another person's head without even eye contact. 

It would make Sherlock bounce with excitement had it not been for their current situation. 

*

John fully awakes from his fitful sleeping in the evening. It's not enough time to heal, not enough time at all. Mike leans over him, but Sherlock stays where he is, hands clenched and jaw tense.

"Evening, John. Got yourself in a bit of a pickle, I see, but Sherlock called me, just in time I should think," says Mike, smiling. "I'm going to give you some sleeping draughts, okay? You can sleep while I heal the worst bits."

John doesn't answer, he just nods stonily after a moment of hesitation. Sherlock can see the awful thoughts racing through his head from his grimace. He can see his mental trauma in the intermittent tremor in his left hand. He can see John, through and through, and he knows that John hates him. 

Mike smiles comfortingly and picks up a goblet.

"Freshly brewed," he says, "So it shouldn't taste too bad. Will work quite efficiently too."

John struggles to sit up, and between them they manage to get the potion down his throat. 

As the exhaustion courses through John's body, and he slowly relaxes, Sherlock walks into his view cautiously, and is startled by his expression when their eyes fix on each other. It's the first time Sherlock has ever seen the shadow of the wolf upon John's human face.

John doesn't tear his burning gaze away until the potion forces him to close his eyes and sleep.

Sherlock's heart beats loud in his chest.

*

The next time John wakes it is to Sherlock' anxious face.

"Fuck off," John slurs, struggling to turn his back. Sherlock is painfully aware of the tender lacerations tearing apart from the scabs as John moves. 

"John, I need you to be rational and listen to me," he says quietly, his stomach lurching at the deep wound on John's stomach opening, blood blotting through the cotton fabric and spreading. He reaches out to steady his friend's shoulders and ease him into a more comfortable position, but John flinches violently and Sherlock has no choice but to lower his shaking hands.

"Okay," Sherlock says and breathes in a little, "Okay. John, I-"

John cuts in, low and angry. "Honestly, Sherlock, whatever you have to say, I don't care. Last night I went to transform in the basement, as always, and this morning I woke up in bloody Regent's Park, naked and in a lot of fucking pain. I couldn't move for half an hour, no matter how hard I tried. So I had to just lie there and listen to myself screaming about how many wizards and Muggles - Muggles, Sherlock! - had seen me. Not only could I have eaten the entire population around Westminster, I've probably broken the Statue of Secrecy a dozen times over."

"John, listen-"

"I don't want to know, Sherlock. Just," John breaks off, closing his eyes and holding up a shaking hand, "Just leave me alone for a bit, okay?"

"Listen to me!" Sherlock suddenly growls. John' eyes bore into his, dark and dangerous, but so, so exhausted.

"I'll make this quick. Then I'll leave you to recuperate, since this conversation is obviously going nowhere and wasting the time your body needs to repair itself. I'll go after this, John, I swear, but I...I just..." says Sherlock. His mouth works silently for a second, wondering how to say it without it sounding like a degrading, filthy lie. He can't figure it out, so he ploughs ahead, hoping John still has a forgiving bone in his body.

"I didn't let you out last night. I neglected my patrol and usual checks; I fell asleep after Mrs Hudson came up, frightened because of the werewolf's banging. But the doors were warded and I triple checked everything was safe. I don't know how... " Sherlock looks away, finding John's distraught expression painful to see. "When I woke in the morning and went down to collect you, the wards had been taken down and the door was open. I didn't let you out. But someone did." He pauses. "I think our culprit is an extremely accomplished Legilimens, and the author of those threatening letters. It's 'M' again."

Sherlock looks back at John, who is pale and stone-faced. But curious.

"You have questions," states Sherlock, turning to go. "But you need your rest. I'll answer them when you've worn fully. Mike will scold me, as best as he can, if I don't let you sleep and recover."

"Sherlock, listen to me now," John says firmly. "Don't go just yet."

Sherlock reluctantly turns to face him. He places his still-shaking hands in his pockets and waits.

John sits up painfully, takes a breath and begins: "I wasn't sure whether to be relived or angry that you weren't there when I woke up. And then I finally saw you, looking like your mother just died, and I thought to myself that you deserved it, that you'll deserve any pain you felt. But now..." John swallows, then continues slowly, " I haven't forgiven you. Not yet. I know it wasn't your fault. But I still feel so fucking angry at you. I hate it. I don't want to be but...Merlin."

"Understandable," Sherlock says quietly. His hands remain in his pocket and his gaze casts down.

"I'm sorry."

"I am too. My deepest apologi-" Sherlock looks up and catches John looking back at him. He feels his throat hitch."I'm sorry, John."

John nods his head stiffly and allows Sherlock to gently grasp his shoulders and ease him down, to sink back into the bed and close his eyes again to the dreamless sleep potion still dragging at his conscious. 

John falls asleep quickly; Sherlock stays and stands guard.

*

Mycroft's fat owl pecks at the living room window incessantly. Sherlock ignores it. The pecks become increasingly louder until the point where Sherlock has no choice but to let the oversized fowl in through the window lest it wakes John from his much needed rest. 

"What do you want, Mycroft," Sherlock mutters as he pries open the window. As soon as there's just enough room, the owl comes barrelling in and perches itself atop Sherlock's chair, staring at him with its beady eyes. Sherlock strides over and snatches the note from between the owl's talons. Written on the back of an undoubtably important document concerning the Muggle government is Mycroft's hurried handwriting, reading: 'Hide John. Authorities are onto both of you. Shall Fidulius if need be, little brother.'

Sherlock scoffs and crumples the paper in his fist. Then he pauses. The ceiling creaks slightly (John's fidgeting in his sleep - another nightmare perhaps; he's usually utterly still during deep sleep, due to his experience in the war). His eyes cast up briefly and then settle back onto the note clenched in his hand. 

A minute later, Mycroft's owl is wobbling on the windowsill, ready to take flight, with a return note clutched in his talons. It is blank apart from a signature, but Mycroft Holmes, of all people, will know that any return note from his brother is a success, but one with '-SH' written on it is an acknowledgement, and he is more than content with that.

*

Orange lights leaks into the room, spilling splendid sunset colours over John's hair, darkening the blonde and giving it a warmer tinge. It's a contrast to his peaky pallor, and, if you over analysed it, actually casts his hair rusted blood, but Sherlock still thinks it looks interesting and hauntingly beautiful, in a way that he'd never thought John was. He adds it to his stockade of information in his Mind Palace and locks it deeply away. 

"Stop staring," murmurs John, his eyes still closed. Sherlock starts slightly; for all of the attention he'd given to John's hair, he didn't actually consider the possibility of him being awake.

"I wasn't," Sherlock replies curtly, and turns back to his microscope. There's so many things to work on, so many mysteries to figure out, but his biggest priority is John's health and so the notes on the lycanthropy potion are back on the table. He looks over his last recipe for the concoction and grimaces. He wants to screw it up and incinerate it, but, although it was a failure, it still has promising ingredients. Perhaps it failed because it was mixed in the wrong order, or that the temperature wasn't hot enough whilst stirring to let the herbs take their full effects, or maybe even that it should've been a counter-clockwise turn when the monkshood was added. There's so many factors that Sherlock should have double checked, but failed to. But not again. It won't happen again. The next potion will succeed. It has to. 

"I like the double, he doesn't stare almost as much as you do," mumbles John, sounding like he's back on the verge of sleep. 

Sherlock glances at the John sitting awkwardly on John's armchair. The homeless person he persuaded only (finally) agreed to do it if he got something from it, and so a nice, fat money bag full of galleons and sickles is being guarded zealously in the man's crossed arms. 

"I wasn't staring," Sherlock states again.

"I with 'im on this one, Holmes," pipes up the homeless man, "Say, 'ow long do I 'ave to do this for?"

"However long it takes for Mycroft to get off his arse and sweet talk the Minister."

"Oh," the man says, looking a bit overwhelmed. It's a peculiar expression to be sitting on John's face. "And what do I do again if somebody, er, turns up?"

"I'd advise you run," replies Sherlock calmly. The poor man looks like a deer in headlights. "I wouldn't worry, they'll let you go as soon as the Polyjuice wears off and they find out you're not actually a fugitive werewolf."

"W-w-werewolf?!" the man splutters, staring frantically at Sherlock. He doesn't dare to look at John, who is sleeping quietly on the sofa, unaware that he's frightening a man near to death.

"Yes, so I'd advise you shut up, unless you want to be mauled," says Sherlock. He relishes the look of terror on the man's face and turns back to his microscope. 

*

As soon as another note from Mycroft bangs into the closed window verifies that all is well, and that his flatmate is safe for another day, the homeless man scarpers.

"What did you say to...Fletcher, was it?" John asks, as he carefully limps towards the window to open it for Mycroft's owl to fly out of. The owl had John's deepest sympathies and compassion, and he had spent ten minutes trying to coax it back into consciousness after it's collision with the closed pane.

"I said nothing believable," replies Sherlock.

John tuts, but let's it go. He goes to slump back in his armchair. "Mycroft really ought to get another owl. Perritop is getting a bit senile in his old age, I think."

*

A few hours later, another note is delivered, this time by a beautiful tawny owl, no doubt of Hogwarts origin. It's addressed to John in green ink. Sherlock rolls his eyes - he's already guessed who the letter is from - and edges open the envelope with the tip of his wand.

_'I have heard the news and would like to again extend my humble hospitality to you. I know of a location that's completely secure and was in use for seven years. If you have trouble finding a place to stay, Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home. - Albus Dumbledore.'_

Inviting, kind...and manipulative. Just like the old man himself, Sherlock thinks shrewdly. He reads through the letter again and squints. Where on earth would there be a secure place for an adult werewolf in Hogwarts? Was Dumbledore planning on sticking John in an old transfiguration classroom? 

John comes up behind him and gently pulls the letter from his iron grasp.

"What's this?" John asks, as he skims through the letter. 

"Dumbledore's offering you monthly housing arrangements," replies Sherlock shortly. His attention returns to his microscope.

John is quiet for a moment. Then: "I think I know who used this 'secure' place before. He was in the Order. The few times I'd talked to him was about his lycanthropy. I was interested at the time; I had the same bigotry as everyone else did, but he was the first one I'd met in my line of work. I asked him how he was able to go to Hogwarts, and he gave me a vague reply about Dumbledore giving him a secure place for his transformations. He vanished soon after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated, or at least I haven't heard of him since. But I think this must be the place he meant."

That got Sherlock's attention. "Interesting. Dumbledore must have mentioned this place to you before too."

"Hm?"

"He said he was extending his hospitality again. When did he ask you before?" asks Sherlock, curious now.

"Oh," says John off-handedly, "When I was first bitten, he visited me afterwards and apologised for not coming to see me before and for the incident in general. He thanked me for doing my part in the war, informed me that it was over, and then mentioned that he could help me with my condition by providing a place. I was angry at the time, so I didn't really pay it much attention. He left soon after he realised I wasn't ready to talk to anyone. I never really gave the offer much thought to be honest." He frowned. "I don't think I'll give it any consideration this time either."

"Why not?"

John gave a rueful smile. "I don't want to impose on him, nor depend on him. I'm independent, I don't need anyone housing me. Anyway, we have a perfectly acceptable arrangement right here-"

"I don't deem it acceptable anymore," cuts in Sherlock, frowning.

"Yes, well, I do. I'm comfortable here," finishes John. "Listen, I'm still angry and really fucking worried about the cellar, especially now someone knows how to manipulate it open. But we'll be cautious next time. I won't endanger Mrs Hudson or Baker Street anymore, I'll find an abandoned warehouse in the country or something. I managed before I met you-"

"By chaining yourself. John, be rational. Either stay here or take Dumbledore up on his offer," snaps Sherlock.

John was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Alright. If it's between the two options, I'll stay. But I'm chaining myself next time. And for gods sake, please guard the door. I know it's asking a lot of you, but you can Silencio the door and, I don't know, bring some books down to read. You could play your violin, or something-"

"John," says Sherlock, turning to face his friend, "I was going to do that anyway. I won't let this happen again, I swear."

*

John recovers slowly. Sherlock works diligently.

No-one notices the crow pecking at the window.

No-one sees the crow fly to the ground and become a grinning man.


	7. A/N: This is officially orphaned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end?

Authors note:

This fic started out as drabbles/notes and was only ever meant to be my own personal AU headcanon, but thanks to you guys it turned into something much bigger. But I'm going to have to abandon it. I've been struggling to get inspiration for it for a while now, and it's just not coming to me. However much I'd love to continue this, real life has caught up to me, and as I enter into my final year of university, I don't see it slowing down anytime soon.

There's a possibility that I might suddenly get itchy fingers and spontaneously blast out a couple drabbles, but it's a very small possibility. I thought I ought to submit this just in case I never do end up updating.

BUT because I love this AU so much, and for some loyal followers of this story, I'd like to offer it out to any author who would like to continue it. :)

Thank you for following/commenting/kudos-ing this fic, and I hope you continue to enjoy it. :)

 

*EDIT*

After reading up what AO3's Orphaning actually does, I've decided not to Orphan this story, because I am still proud of it and want to have my name connected to it. I'm leaving it not because I want to, but because I can't continue it at the moment. There's also a hope that it will be continued someday, whether through me or someone who would like to take over. 

For now, it is a Work In Progress with an ambiguous, incomplete ending. Haha.

 

 

 


	8. Christmas Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I realise I'm literally a month late in posting this, but in my defence it was written before Christmas! ...I just forgot to post it. Oops.
> 
> Happy late holidays!

In the week leading up to Christmas, 221B suddenly exploded in festivity. Overnight, whilst Sherlock and John were on a case, tinsel appeared on the mantelpiece and windowsill, and a fresh pile of mince pies was sat on the kitchen counter. There was even a miniature tree placed on the center of the table (although it didn't stay for long; apparently the random sheaves of torn newspaper were more important than the spirit of Christmas and had to replace the tree). The culprit of this sudden good cheer was obviously Mrs Hudson; although she admitted to nothing, she still frowned at Sherlock's Grinch-like attitude and insisted on spritzing up the tinsel every time it 'happened' to catch on fire. Repeated attempts to persuade Sherlock that Christmas was a lovely time and should be celebrated failed spectacularly against Sherlock's bullheadedness. 

And so when John arrived home on Christmas Eve after coming back late from his sister's house, laden with a couple of bags from various Diagon Alley shopping outlets, he was surprised to see Sherlock sat cross legged on the floor, snipping away at wrapping paper. The room was alive with classical music and a small collection of presents.

“You look busy,” commented John, as he dropped the bags and took off his coat.

Sherlock lifted his head and did a brief x-ray of him. He had deduced the argument between him and Harry over what was meant to be a nice roast dinner before John had walked in, but the slide on the ice that had given him scrapes on his knees on the way home was interesting, and mildly funny. Sherlock said nothing, just a small noise of affirmation before getting back to work on the wrapping. 

John smiled fondly. “I thought you didn't like Christmas.”

“I don't.”

“So why-”

Sherlock looked up again, annoyance flickering across his face. “It's customary to give gifts to loved ones. Just because I'm not fond of Christmas doesn't mean I'm not obliged to be involved.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Alright, Scrooge, I was just teasing.”

He flicked his wand at his belongings on the floor, and they obediently flew upstairs to his room. 

“So what gifts are you hoping for?” asked John as he trudged over to his chair and slumped down. He sighed in relief; it had probably been a long day.

“A dragon egg,” replied Sherlock instantaneously. 

“Why on earth would you need a dragon egg?”

“To raise it, of course,” said Sherlock, stoically not looking up from his wrapping. 

John blanched. “You are not raising a dragon. There's more than enough beasts in this flat, thank you very much.”

“John,” warned Sherlock. His hackles rose every time John referred to himself in a derogatary way, and John knew that, yet still forgot about it sometimes. It had been a couple of weeks since the incident with 'M' and John's transformation. They had both recovered well, John seemingly moreso than Sherlock, what with the crawling guilt that clawed him every time he saw a scar on his flatmate's body, but what did it matter so long as John was safe. 

“No, but seriously, you are not getting a dragon egg,” repeated John, his eyebrows furrowed. “What else would you like?”

“A wandless, locked room triple homocide.”

“...what breed of dragon do you want?”

* * *

The bloody thing hated John. It pecked viciously at the bars and flapped its horrid wings at the bars of its cage, screeching and staring with its hawk-like eyes.

“I hate it,” declared Sherlock. The owl was atrociously bad-tempered; he had no idea why John would have thought it a good present for him. If it had been him, he would have steered straight away from a creature that obviously detested him. He had an inkling that the bird could detect that John was not entirely human and could understand if it was wary, but this thing was downright demonic. 

“I thought you might say that,” said John, “Just give her a day. See how you two get along.”

He made to open the cage, but Sherlock stood up and, flapping his hands, strode over and took the cage from his flatmate.

“It hates you, John, don't bother trying to open it. You'll get pecked to death,” said Sherlock gruffly.  
He took the screeching owl into his own room and deposited it on his bed. He'd get rid of it in the morning, there was no need to experiment with this thing. Only, as he started to leave the room, the owl quietened and made curious cheaping sounds. He paused. John had got it for him as a Christmas present, it would be rude of him to not even try to appreciate this thing. He doubled back and opened the cage cautiously, fully prepared to swing a punch should it try to attack him. The cage door swung open and neither owl nor wizard moved. 

“Tu-wita-wit,” said the owl. 

“...fine,” said Sherlock. 

* * *

Although Sherlock never actually said anything, John caught him with bags from Eeylops Owl Emporium and books on the Northern Hawk-Owl. The creature never seemed to emerge from his room, but evidently it delivered mail as Sherlock had taken to leaving his room in the morning with The Daily Prophet and several letters under his arm. 

“What's the owl's name?” asked John one morning.

Without looking up, Sherlock replied, “Herpo.”

“As in Herpo the Foul?”

“The creator of the basilisk, yes.”

“...but the owl's female.”

“Yes.”

“...and not a Dark wizard.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if she was one.”

John opened his mouth to say more, before deciding that some things were just better left unasked.


End file.
